Tag: books

The Road South

July 1863, Mount Locust, Mississippi
Based on a true story

Paris Martin paused to straighten his broad shoulders made strong by years of fieldwork. He wiped his brow and swept his eyes over the plantation.

On the surface, everything seemed the same. The Chamberlain’s house, an inn for travelers on the Natchez Trace, stood on its knoll. Cotton fields stretched across the landscape, shimmering with heat. Cicadas droned from the woods, and a red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead. Paris breathed in the familiar smells of damp earth and mule sweat from the nearby wagon yard.

Yet beneath it all, something had shifted. Travelers staying at the inn had relayed some startling news. Vicksburg had fallen and Yankee troops had occupied Natchez. Enslaved people were escaping across the region and finding refuge behind Union lines. Most astonishing of all, Black men could enlist in units of the United States Colored Troops, putting on uniforms and carrying rifles.

At twenty-two, Paris had spent his entire life at Mount Locust. Every mound, stream, and stand of trees was familiar to him. Yet now his thoughts drifted toward Natchez beyond the southwestern hills, where an unfamiliar life seemed suddenly possible.

“If you stare hard enough, maybe it’ll come walking over here.”

Paris turned and found his brother Anthony grinning at him from the next row in the cotton patch. Lean and quick on his feet, Anthony carried an irrepressible smile that hardship never managed to erase.

“What will?”

“Natchez.”

“That’s foolish.”

“So is standing in the sun daydreaming.”

Paris chuckled. Anthony always found humor, even on the hardest days. Their mother used to say that if the world ended, Anthony would ask whether there might still be supper afterward. She had needed that kind of laughter since their father died.

“I’m not daydreaming.”

“Then you’re thinking about something solid.”

“Maybe.”

Anthony lowered his voice and glanced toward the far end of the field.

“About the Yankees occupying Natchez?”

Paris hesitated. The enslaved at Mount Locust had more privileges than others in Mississippi. Their owner, Paulina Chamberlain, sometimes allowed them to visit a nearby plantation to socialize, a freedom unheard of elsewhere. But to think about escaping for good? That was a different prospect.

“Maybe.”

Anthony nodded. “Me too. Imagine being able to join up and fight against the Confederacy. To bear arms…”

For a while they worked in silence beneath the scorching midday sun. Sweat trickled down Paris’s neck until his homespun shirt clung to his back. Despite himself, hope began to stir inside him, a dangerous thing that tempted a man to imagine a life beyond the one laid before him.

___

Later that afternoon, the brothers went to repair a fence damaged by a recent storm. The work took them beyond the edge of the main field where they could talk more freely.

Anthony drove a post into the ground and stepped back to examine it. Sweat darkened the backs of their shirts, and every hammer blow sent grasshoppers scattering through the weeds.

“You ever think about what you’d do?”

Paris adjusted another rail.

“If what happened?”

“If you woke up truly free tomorrow.”

Paris considered the question. “Sleep late.”

Anthony laughed. “That’s your dream?”

“For the first day.”

“And the second?”

Paris smiled. “Maybe spend the whole day deciding what to do.”

“You dream too small.”

“What about you?” Paris asked.

Anthony rested both arms on the fence. “I’d walk.”

“Walk where?”

“Everywhere.”

Paris shook his head. “You’d get awful tired.”

“Maybe. But it’d be my choice, and I see parts of this country I’ve never seen.” He studied the distant woods to the southwest. “You think we’d make it?”

Paris drove another nail into the rail before answering. “I don’t know. There’s still a lot of danger out there, especially along the Trace. The Union may control Natchez, but it doesn’t control the minds of those who hate colored people.”

Anthony nodded. “Fair enough, but we’d have each other for protection.” He fell silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I keep wondering if this is what it feels like before your whole life changes.”

Paris stood straight, mopped his brow, and let his eyes drift over the fields. “I know what you mean. Everything looks the same. The fence. The cotton. The trees. But somehow the whole world feels totally different.”

Movement along the distant Trace caught his attention. A group of horsemen emerged from the trees, riding slowly beneath the afternoon sun. Both brothers froze.

 “Who are they?” Paris asked.

 “Most likely a slave patrol,” said Anthony.

The horsemen continued without stopping, but neither brother spoke until they disappeared. The weight of what they were considering settled heavily between them.

___

The brothers sat outside their cabin as the last traces of sunlight slipped beyond the western hills. Smoke from cook fires carried the aromas of cornbread, greens, and salt pork.

An elder named Isaiah approached them. He lowered himself onto a sitting stump with a weary sigh, rubbing one knee before settling into place. Age had bent his shoulders and silvered his hair, but his eyes remained sharp.

“You two look like men carrying secrets.”

Anthony grinned.

“Maybe we’re just thinking.”

“Thinking too much can be dangerous.”

“Then we’re definitely thinking,” said Paris with his own grin.

Isaiah chuckled. “I’ve watched both of you grow up. Neither one of you ever learned to hide your thoughts.” His gaze shifted toward the Trace. “Generations have walked that road searching for something better. Sometimes I think the land remembers them all.” He paused. “Most folks see dirt and wagon ruts. I see hope.”

“You ever think about taking it?” asked Anthony.

Isaiah smiled sadly. “Every day when I was your age.”

The answer surprised them.

“You never tried?” Paris asked.

“Once.” The old man folded his hands in his lap. “I got about three miles from here.”

Anthony leaned forward. “What happened?”

Isaiah laughed softly. “Fear happened.”

The honesty of the answer surprised them.

“I was younger than you boys are now when I left,” Isaiah continued. “I thought I had everything figured out. Then the woods got dark. Every sound became a posse in my mind. Every shadow became somebody looking for me.” He shrugged. “So I turned around.”

One of the Chamberlain’s dogs barked in the distance.

“Do you regret it?” Paris asked.

Isaiah stared toward the fading light at the edge of the southern woods. “Sometimes. Other times I tell myself I made the right choice. Truth is, neither matters now. The chance came but I let it pass.”

His gaze moved back to Paris to Anthony, studying their faces.

“If you boys are waiting for your fear or uncertainty to leave, it won’t. If you mean to go, you’ll have to carry those feelings with you.”

In the distance a whip-poor-will called from the woods, and the night’s first stars began to brighten overhead.

___

The following evening, Elijah returned from Natchez with a small wagonload of supplies. He was a short, compact man with a full beard whom the Chamberlains trusted him enough to send on multi-day trips. After unloading, he walked towards his quarters, dust coating his boots and the cuffs of his trousers. He passed Paris and Anthony sitting outside their cabin.

“I hear you’ve been to Natchez,” Anthony called out to him.

Elijah stopped in mid track and nodded. “I have.”

For a moment he simply looked at them with a weary face, as though deciding how much to say.

“They’re there,” he said at last. “Union soldiers. Colored soldiers too.”

Neither brother spoke.

“I watched them marching through town wearing blue uniforms with rifles on their shoulders.” Elijah smiled faintly. “You should’ve seen the way they carried themselves. Like men who’d finally remembered who they were.”

Paris felt that stirring of hope again. “They’re taking in folks from plantations all over the county?”

“They are.”

Elijah lowered his voice. “If you’re thinking about going, don’t wait too long. Every day more people are slipping away.” He paused. “And the patrols have noticed.”

He rose, lifted a small sack onto his shoulder, and started toward his quarters. After a few steps he looked back. “Hope has a way of not waiting forever.”

Then he disappeared into the gathering dusk.

___

The next morning, Paris woke before sunrise and stepped outside the cabin while the rest of the plantation slept. A pale gray light lingered along the eastern horizon. For a few precious moments, the world seemed suspended between night and day. The air smelled of pine and dew as a faint mist drifted across the low ground beyond the fields.

He stood quietly, listening. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and a mockingbird called from a nearby tree. Ordinarily, even a beautiful morning like this would have seemed unremarkable, but now it felt unlike any morning before it.

By nightfall, there would be no turning back.

Anthony stepped outside a few moments later, following Paris’ gaze toward the southern woods.

“You nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Paris smiled. “You too?”

Anthony laughed softly. “I feel like my stomach’s trying to climb out of my body.”

The honesty of the answer eased something inside Paris. He had assumed that he alone carried the burden of fear.

“What if we get caught?” Anthony asked quietly.

Paris looked across the fields.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

Paris laughed despite himself. It felt good to not know, perhaps because the alternative, as Isaiah had warned, was thinking too much.

___

That evening, after the plantation had grown quiet, Paris and Anthony crossed the yard to their mother’s quarters. She had moved temporarily from their family cabin to care for two elderly women.

She looked up as they entered. Deep lines framed her gentle face, but her steady eyes held the strength of a woman who had endured much and complained little. She knew why they were there.

“So,” she said softly, “it’s tonight.”

Both nodded solemnly.

“Mama…” Anthony began.

She raised a hand to stop him.

“I’ve known this day was coming since the first time I heard you two whispering about Natchez.”

Silence settled over the little cabin. The only sound was the soft crackle of the cooking fire.

Finally Paris said, “We hate leaving you.”

“I know.”

Anthony stared at the floor. “Come with us.”

She stood and stepped towards them, smiling sadly as she shook her head.

“The Lord has a different road for me.”

She reached out and smoothed the front of Paris’ shirt as she had done ever since he was a little boy. Then she took each of their hands.

“Your father used to tell me a man doesn’t get many chances to change the course of his life. If the Lord puts one in front of you, you take it.”

Tears welled in Anthony’s eyes.

“We’ll come back.”

“I’ll pray you do.” She squeezed their hands. “But don’t you look back because of me. You just keep walking.”

She embraced them both, holding them a long while before stepping away.

“Take care of each other.”

“We will,” Paris said.

She smiled through her tears.

___

The plantation slept beneath a full moon as Paris and Anthony slipped between the cabins and crossed the open ground. They each carried a small burlap sack containing personal belongings. Silver light washed across the fields while a breeze stirred the cotton. Anthony’s foot struck an old pail, sending it clattering across the yard. Both brothers froze, scarcely daring to breathe as they waited for a lantern to flare or a dog to bark. None did, and the night settled around them once more.

At the edge of the plantation, they stopped at the tree line and turned for one last look. Mount Locust lay beneath the moonlight, the old house watching over the cabins and fields that had shaped every memory they possessed. Paris was surprised by the sadness that rose in him.

“Feels strange,” said Anthony.

Paris nodded.

“You ready?”

Paris turned his eyes south toward Natchez and the uncertain future waiting beyond the darkness. Fear remained, but hope walked beside it now.

“Yes.”

They entered the woods, where the air cooled around them. It didn’t take long to reach the Trace. Both had walked it before, but never like this. It stretched before them into the darkness. Wagon ruts caught the moonlight, and generations of footsteps had worn the earth smooth. Pale sycamores arched overhead, their white trunks glowing in the darkness.

Paris knelt and ran his fingers across the cool, packed earth. He imagined all the feet that had traveled this road before his own: Choctaw hunters, traders, soldiers, settlers, runaway slaves, families seeking new homes. He stood without saying a word.

“When I was a boy,” he said. “I used to imagine owning a horse. Now I’m imagining a whole different life.”

“Come on,” said Anthony. “Let’s find that new life.”

Somewhere ahead a whip-poor-will called. Anthony answered by softly but badly imitating its song. Paris laughed under his breath.

Then, side by side, they followed the Trace into the Mississippi night.

Epilogue, Jefferson County, Mississippi, 2018

The cemetery was quiet except for the rustling of leaves overhead. Time had softened the edges of a weathered government headstone, but the name inscribed on was still readable.

PARIS MARTIN

For years, the fate of the Martin brothers had been unknown. Patient research through church records, military files, and family histories eventually led to the discovery of the enlistment card for Anthony, dated July 20, 1863. Then they uncovered Paris’ grave at Jefferson Chapel African Methodist Episcopal Church. After the war, he had returned to Jefferson County to build a new life.

Freedom hadn’t spared him hardship. He came home to a Mississippi where prejudice endured. But no hatred could erase what he and Anthony had claimed for themselves when they walked away from bondage and stood beneath the United States flag as soldiers.

A breeze stirred the trees overhead. Sunlight touched the worn headstone before drifting away. And somewhere beyond memory, beneath an eternal Mississippi moon, Paris and Anthony Martin were still walking south along the Trace, carrying hope into the darkness with every step.

About the author: Krin Van Tatenhove is an author, visual artist, and spiritual adventurer. He has worked as a cleric, community organizer, and director of a nonprofit. His 40 years of professional writing experience have led to countless articles and 19 books. You can freely download most of his words and images by visiting krinvan.com, or purchase books on his Amazon Author’s Page. In addition to his creative pursuits, Krin suffers from chronic wanderlust, always seeking new travel experiences to satisfy his gypsy soul. He is married, has four children, and lives with his wife and disabled adult son in San Antonio, Texas.

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Writing 101, by Ralph Bland

Years ago, when I first began to write seriously, my plan was to always connect Point One to Point Two in some sort of scientific method, hoping to proceed that way toward a happy fulfillment. I envisioned the process being completed in a prearranged way with an outline and notes to help me along, but there always came a moment when I suddenly sat back and said “Whoa!” This was the time when I discovered that my protagonist was acting funny and had stepped outside his planned activities and my mapped-out plot had gone in strange, different directions. All at once my storyline was not anywhere near the place I’d envisioned it to be, and I’d find I didn’t know what kind of book I was writing anymore. What started out as a smooth process now had detours and sinkholes that caused my stories to stop and swerve and run off my planned narrative highway onto the literary shoulder. On those occasions, I found myself having to pause with my plans and ask myself the disconcerting question -what do I do next?

I’ve written a slew of novels at this point in time, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore when I discover I’m not really in charge of my project anymore. It always seems to be a case of the components of the manuscript stepping up to the fore and announcing they are taking over. I’m forced to throw away my previous conceptions and find a seat in the audience and let the characters and the plot and the style join together as a team and do what needs to be done to move the process along. All the stuff that was originally in my head doesn’t get totally discarded, but is used in this new approach as filler and launching pads for what is being revealed to me each writing session. It’s amazing what characters step to the fore and how the narrative proceeds when I simply get out of the way and let things flow naturally.

This is not to say that once the auto-pilot mode takes over that everything then becomes smooth and peachy. Oh no. There are still moments when the plot or the characters freeze and stumble and lose their way, and that is the time I arise from my desk and go take a walk and let the whole shebang take a breather. I and my stumbling manuscript jointly kick back and stew in our own juices a while. And usually when I return to my desk, there are fresh ideas and new avenues waiting there for me to consider. I simply practice the art of stillness for a time and allow my muse to interact with the world living in my manuscript. I find if I don’t get so anxious and give all the elements time to breathe, the right scenarios soon appear and the wagons get rolling again.

It’s entertaining sometimes to go back and study my old notes and initial outlines after a manuscript has been completed and take notice of how much my plans changed or did a complete about-face or disappeared in their entirety. More times than not, the initial sketchings and the finished product don’t resemble each other much at all, and from what I’ve learned over the years, the end result is generally much better than what my feeble brain conjectured in the first place.

My technique is never going to end up in the Writer’s Holy Grail Handbook on how to create and be successful. All I know is that somewhere along the way I learned how to get out of my own way and trust that the plates and dishes I’d been juggling would eventually find their place in the manuscript without shattering into pieces. Instead of forcing new truths onto the page or inventing narratives that don’t belong, I’ve learned to let the story settle into its own shape and reveal what it’s been trying to say all along. I’ve learned one can spoil the dinner if the broth gets added to and stirred too awfully much.

My process for writing then is to take some time to allow the words to simmer. Take a break and let the planet take a few spins. The possibility exists that upon your return you might find there’s been some blending going on and your words have become part of a nice stew. You can start writing again and the chances are you’ll be able to see down the road much more clearly without the jumble of wasted paragraphs fogging your vision. Maybe your headlights have illuminated the destination or maybe it’s just the clouds have lifted and you’re able to see what was there all the time. Sometimes a little patience goes a long way. Sometimes all one needs is some distance from the manuscript for a time, a change of perspective, a deep breath before moving forward. Think of it as a poolside break before climbing the ladder and going off the high dive again.

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SO, YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER? – by David Clear

Mrs. Blythe’s 2nd grade class, 1962: The Magical Letters on the Wall

They were posted above the blackboard. All 26 of them, upper and lower case, neatly drawn on lined paper and large enough to see from a distance. They were designed to be a chore to learn and to copy, but to my seven-year-old eyes they seemed to radiate a light, an energy of some sort, different from everything else in the room.

When I reflect on this memory, one truth emerges—I was in love with the alphabet, with the words it could create, and with the worlds those words could fashion.

My mother bought me the World Book Encyclopedia while I was still in my single digits. I fell further in love with words, ideas, and stories. I am most thankful to my mother for encouraging me to learn how to use a typewriter and buying me one of my own. After the slow and cumbersome world of cursive writing, it was like being catapulted to the 24th century of Star Trek.

And then, when I was able to upgrade to an electric typewriter, I was officially lost forever in the So You Want to Be a Writer nebula.

I started my first novel length story at 14 years old, a mishmash of romance, adventure, Beatle’s music, and psychic phenomenon. I experimented with sci-fi and espionage scenarios but burned up the most typewriter ribbon ink and paper on classic adolescent angst journals.

I was a scribbling prospector wandering the bookstores by day and thinking, by night, that golden nuggets were rolling off my electric typewriter. Just a matter of time before the world found out about them.

“Writers are only successful after they’re dead,” my dad told me. I disagreed, of course. After all, I saw writers like Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer, Richard Bach, Erica Jong, Stephen King, and others being interviewed on nighttime talk shows, an obvious sign of success.

Nevertheless, it didn’t take me long to realize that the arduously slow task (by 21st century standards) of sending in stories on a typewritten piece of paper with a self-addressed stamped envelope, only to receive a rejection, wasn’t going to earn me any money to pursue it as a career.

To write, perchance to dream of making money at it; ay, there’s the rub.

It would be interesting (and likely depressing) if the ratio of wannabe paid writers to actual paid writers could be calculated. And when I say paid, I don’t mean utilitarian authors who write for newspapers, ad copy, or technical journals. I mean bestsellers like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Harry Potter, the DaVinci Code, The Celestine Prophecy, or The Andromeda Strain.

Herman Melville had explosive success with his first two books, Typee and Omoo. But then, Moby Dick. The readers of his time didn’t get it. It sold only about 3700 copies in his lifetime. But the fact that it stands today as a masterpiece of American literature redeems Melville’s inner drive and vision to create something that went beyond the commercial market and challenged the consciousness of the reader. Melville, like F. Scott Fitzgerald and others, died well before their work achieved iconic status. I would suspect by then they were dispassionate about becoming earthly literary legends and were on to working on other, more universal projects.

I think the most important lesson I’ve learned about writing over sixty years is that the passion for it and practice of it is, first and foremost, its own ultimate and eternal reward. At age 92, the famous cellist Pablo Casals was asked why he still practiced. “Because I think I’m making progress.”

Being an author may seem to have greater cachet than being an HVAC repairman. Having lived in the south for many years, I can tell you honestly that the HVAC repairmen were equally, if not more, essential to my well-being than A Farewell to Arms. My interaction with the HVAC repairman is as valid and important in its own way as a reader’s interaction with what I have written. The difference, of course, is utilitarian versus personal. By sharing my inner worlds through my words, I am becoming more open to another human being than were I just the repairman who says, “well, the system is out of freon.”

But people connect and share with each other in many ways all the time. In that sense, writing is just another aspect of the nature and rules of human life: there’s much to learn, and doing it well takes regular study and practice.

At this very moment, millions of people are, like me, hovering over keyboards trying to channel what is percolating within them. Many others are “just” doing their jobs, raising their children, exercising, meditating, or traveling. All of them are drafting their stories by being. Whether in the form of a New York Times bestseller, or in a child’s eyes, I believe everyone’s story is heard, read, and felt.

So, paraphrasing Twain, it would seem the difference between being a writer and being a highly paid successful writer is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. And who’s to say which is more rewarding?

Kurt Vonnegut wrote the following words in a letter dated November 5, 2006, addressed to students at Xavier High School in New York City. He had been approached by five students whose assignment was to write to their favorite authors. He was the only one to respond. I think his words capture the gist of what I’m saying.

“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow” 

About the author: David Clear’s novel, Dreaming at the Speed of Sound, is available at this link.” He has also had the following stories published by Story Sanctum: Cresting Wave, Thus Spake Alan, and The Overdue Library Book. David’s collection of short stories entitled The Role of a Lifetime: Stories of Reincarnation in the Theater of the Soul has just been released by Second Shore Publishing. Here is a downloadable PDF copy.

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Victor Benavides and the Power of Words

I’ve had the privilege of connecting with writers from vastly different countries and experiences. It’s like being part of an international family. Periodically I interview them to help others understand their backstories.

This time, meet Victor Luis Benavides. He was born in Harlingen, Texas, and raised in Olmito, Texas, where much of his sense of place and storytelling first took shape. He earned his Bachelor of Business Administration in Management from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley in 2017, followed by a Master of Business Administration in 2019, and a Master of English Studies in 2025. His writing has appeared in Boundless: The Anthology of the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival (2025, 2026) and Tales from the Vault, Volume 3 by Story Sanctum Publishing. He is a Professor of English in the Rio Grande Valley, where his work with students continues to shape his approach to language, storytelling, and expression. He has been dedicated to helping students discover the transformative power of language. He believes that words are more than a means of communication—they are tools for growth, empowerment, and the pursuit of one’s dreams. In the classroom, he encourages students to find their own voices and embrace the art of expression.

KVT: First, Victor, thank you for taking the time to share with us. I see that you grew up in the Lower Rio Grande Valley (RGV). As a fellow Texan, I’ve spent a lot of time on both sides of the American/Mexican border. Does your family have historic roots in that area?

VB: My father moved here in 1943 when he was fourteen years old. I remember him sharing a story about his first day here—how his brother gave him a pair of canvas shoes that he cherished. He began his career as a radio personality and DJ in the Valley, and later became a writer, producer, director, and actor in several hit films shot locally, such as Treinta Segundos Para Morir and La Banda del Carro Rojo. My mother was born at Mercy Hospital in Brownsville, Texas, and grew up in Port Isabel. She met my father in 1979.

KVT: Your father sounds like a creative character. Do you remember any specific advice he gave you?

VB (chuckling): My dad gave me advice about everything and anything. When it came to writing, he said to write about something that I find truly inspiring. If I get excited with my own words and feel a sense of wonderment and connection, then I have something worthwhile to share with the world. He also told me that whenever I write fiction, add a bit of truth because it will then become greater. Lastly, he told me to write while in the moment. If I feel inspired in the moment and write something down, even if it’s incomplete, I know that one day I will revisit that piece of writing and finish it when inspiration strikes again. 

KVT: Your bio also says that after earning an MBA, you went on to get a master’s in English. What prompted the shift?

VB: I’m an English teacher here in the RGV, and I decided to pursue a master’s in English studies to strengthen my skills and broaden my knowledge of the field. I felt that deepening my understanding of rhetoric, literacy, and composition would make me a more effective and impactful teacher for my students.

KVT: I love this quote from you: “I have always been fascinated with the power of words and how they can stir emotions and help a reader transcend into different literary worlds.” Do you have some favorite authors who influenced you?

VB: Authors who have influenced me deeply include Américo Paredes, María Amparo Ruiz de Burton, John Berger, Rudolfo Anaya, Margarita Longoria, Sandra Cisneros, and many others. I’m also drawn to science fiction and admire writers like George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and others for their ability to expand the imagination and reflect on society.

KVT: Can you share any anecdotes from your teaching when you saw students whose emotions were stirred by the power of words?

VB: There’s a famous story I read to my students called The Appointment in Samarra. It’s about a wealthy merchant who sends his servant to get provisions in the bustling marketplace of Baghdad. The servant returns full of fear. When the merchant asks him why, he says that he saw Death in the image of a cloaked woman and she seemed to make a threatening gesture. The servant asks to borrow the merchant’s horse, then gallops to the faraway city of Samarra to hide and escape from her. Later, the merchant goes down to the marketplace and sees the same cloaked figure “Why did you make a threatening gesture towards my servant?” he asks her. “That was not a threatening gesture,” she says. “I was simply startled to see him in Baghdad, because I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.” After reading this, I get a lot of wide-eyed epiphany-induced looks from my students. They realize that the story elicits an emotional response from them because they can identify with the servant’s feelings. No young student really takes into account their own mortality. At that age, they feel invincible. However, the story helps them realize that death is inevitable and that time is a precious resource. Although it’s a bleak story, it helps students appreciate the power of words.

KVT: What are some of your plans for using your writing and your new degree?

VB: I’ve always seen education as a lifelong journey; we’re constantly learning and growing. With my writing, I hope to create literary works that forge emotional connections with readers. I also want to offer more diverse “mirrors” in my work—stories and characters that allow readers from all backgrounds to see themselves reflected and to connect personally with what they read.

KVT: Well, I look forward to reading your work in the future, and I thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

VB: You’re very welcome!

You can find Victor Benavides on Facebook here.

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Meet Soter Lucio: Grandmother, Ironer, Horror Fiction Writer

Stories are a communal currency of humanity. – Tahir Shah

As Fiction Editor at Story Sanctum Publishing, I have the privilege of reading submissions from around the world. We have featured stories by writers from India, Indonesia, Scotland, Taiwan, and England among others. Through my email correspondence with them, as well as deep dives into their work online, I have broadened my appreciation for Story Sanctum’s diverse family of authors.

Recently, I interviewed Soter Lucio from the Island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. We published her short story The Contract on June 1 of this year. Soter’s background, her chosen genre, and her path to discovering her gift fascinate me.

KVT: Soter, tell me something about your family, past and present.

SL: I have always lived in Trinidad, and my family and ancestors have aways been gardeners. We plant and sell in the market on Fridays and Saturdays. We plant chive, thyme, parsley, and short crops like sweet peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, and ochres. I have four children and six grandchildren, all of whom live on Trinidad.

KVT: The main character of The Contract is a woman who washes clothes along the river. I understand that laundering is a part of your past as well.

SL: I worked as a maid until my girls completed Form 5 so that I could be home in the morning before they left for school and home in the afternoons when they returned. Then I started ironing because we needed more money for university and ironing paid better. That was in 1997. I put advertisements in the newspapers and got enough clients to fill my days. So I ironed from 6.30 am to 8.30 pm, Monday through Saturday, and Sunday between 7 am and 1 pm. I did this from 1997 to 2023. I still iron, but not as much anymore.

KVT: How did you first get interested in writing?

SL: Someone read an essay I’d written in primary school and said, “You know, you could be a writer.” I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know one could even be a writer. Then I read an advertisement in our newspaper about an aptitude test from The Writing School of London. It was a challenge to compose a story based on a photo they supplied. I did. I sent it, passed it, and took their correspondence course. I followed that up with their diploma in writing in 1983. By then I had four children, so writing had to take a backseat until my youngest got her degree in Pharmacy. Then she bought me a laptop and said “Mother go write!”

KVT: Why have you chosen the horror genre?

SL: I think horror chose me. We are from a superstitious community, immersed in a way of life that I now understand to be horror. I grew up with no electricity or indoor plumbing.  I washed and bathed by the river, and I toted water from a spring for all our household duties. Stories about soucouyant, lougaroo, La Diablesse, Papa Bois, and douen were part of our daily fare. Soucouyant are females who suck the blood of women and roll on men in their sleep. Lougaroo shape shift into animals, carrying chains and running about the country scaring people. La Diablesse is a woman who made a deal with the Devil in exchange for eternal beauty. She lures young boys to follow her until they are lost, then she beats them with her razor-sharp hair until they die. Papa Bois protects the animals in the forest. Douen are the babies who die before getting baptized. Stories and characters like these are the root of my horror orientation.

KVT: Wow, those are some scary images to introduce to children. Do you remember an incident from your youth where one of the superstitions seemed to take on a life of its own?

SL: As a child I was told that only devils are in the city. Then, at eleven years old, I passed the Common Entrance Exam for an Intermediate Girl school in Port-of-Spain. I moved there and was scared every day. I was sure my parents hated me because they sent me among the “devils.” I spent my days looking for horns and tails. Where were they hiding them? I never found the answer. I was also told that only devils go to the cinema. When I was about 21 years old, some friends invited me to see a movie. When I got home that night, I actually tried washing away the sin. That shows you how long those superstitions lasted.

KVT: When did you publish your first story? What are some of your writing credits since then?

SL: My first story was published in 2015 by Dark Chapter Press. Then I had others that appeared in Sirens Call Publications, Weird Mask, Wicked Shadow Press, Story Sanctum, and Migla Press.

KVT: If you look back on your work, what is your favorite piece you’ve written?

SL: My favorite is The Last Request of Gladimus McCarran for the simple reason that it was imagined, written, and submitted within a few hours after a long day of ironing.  For me that was quite an accomplishment.  It was published by the now defunct Sirens Call.  A reprint of that story along with others can be found at Metastellar.

KVT: What upcoming projects do you have in the works?

SL: At present, I’m writing a 30,000-word horror novella for Dark Holme Publishing and a short story for Wicked Shadow Press. I’m also attempting a full-length novel that will be based on my life but is not autobiographical.

KVT: Well, I certainly think your fascinating life is worthy of a book. Thanks so much for taking the time to spend with us.

SL: You’re very welcome!

In addition to the links above, you can find Soter on Facebook here.

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Under the Bell Jar with Sylvia

But I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure at all. How did I know that someday—at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere—the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn’t descend again? – from “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath

Throughout my career, I walked with the wounded. I communed with those suffering grief, addiction, disease, and mental illness. I’m certain that my personal struggles, so close to the surface, helped me become what Henri Nouwen called a “wounded healer.” It was a privilege to share sacramental moments with fellow human beings.

There’s an incident seared in my memory. Bob, a member of a church I served, had reached the end of what he could tolerate. He took a pistol, walked out to his driveway around midnight, and shot himself. I lived two blocks away, where I was awoken by my phone jangling. It was a police officer. An ambulance was on its way, he said, but Bob, somehow still conscious, was asking for Pastor Krin to come to his side. I got there quickly, where I kneeled next to him, his head haloed by blood. Under the bell jar, our eyes met. I assured him that both his Creator and I loved him, and that nothing could separate him from that reality. I believed it then; I still do.

Miraculously, he survived without brain damage and went on to heal the underlying depression that drew him into the abyss.

My empathy for those who suffer has never subsided. Recently it extended to Esther Greenwood, the main character of Sylvia Plath’s only novel, The Bell Jar, published just before she committed suicide. Set during a single summer, it’s the story of a young woman’s descent into depression. Beginning with a writer’s internship in New York, she plummets through a series of mental asylums, enduring primitive shock treatments along the way.

The novel had been on my radar for years, one of those “must reads” for students of serious literature. I knew about Sylvia’s tumultuous relationship with poet Ted Hughes. I had read some of her poems which really didn’t speak to me, but this novel was both lyrical and terrifying. I will never forget it.

The bell jar becomes a metaphor, a symbol of the pressures Esther faces to conform to societal norms. The conventional paths of marriage and motherhood, held up as ultimate goals for women, feel like chains to her, stifling her ambitions and suffocating her spirit. She yearns for freedom, for the ability to define her own life, yet every attempt to assert control pushes her further into despair.

Esther speaks of this inner turmoil. “I was supposed to be the author of my own life.” “I wanted to be intelligent and popular.” “I wanted to be a perfect person.” “I always believed that if I did or said the right thing, then everything would turn out all right.” “What is the point of this life if we are not living it to the fullest?”

Increasingly, depression dictates her thoughts. “It was as if I were always wearing a mask.” “I felt like I was drowning.” “The world was a big, dark ball, and I was all alone.” “The only thing I could do was stay quiet and let the shadows take me.” “I wanted to disappear.”

Seen through the bell jar’s distortion, Esther’s urge to vanish means ending her life. She contemplates multiple methods. Jumping off a roof. Drowning in the ocean. Then, in her most dedicated effort, taking an overdose of pills.

That final attempt still chills me. Esther makes her way to the family cellar, then to a dugout tucked in its furthest recess. She crawls inside, pulls some firewood against the entrance, and takes every pill in her bottle.

It’s hard to describe how that affected me. I was right there, sitting next to her in the damp darkness, powerless to banish her despair, bearing witness to a life that mattered as preciously as any of ours.

My colleagues and I call it the “ministry of presence.” Simply being with another person during their trials. Refraining from trite platitudes. Offering only love and grace. Over the years, it led me to sit beneath the bell jar with so many people, enduring their pressures with them, believing that the necessary remedies would emerge but that love and empathy come first.

Admittedly, I took this further than many. I remember being at the bedside of an elderly woman in her final days. She had no family left, and her failing heart would soon stop beating. I had been walking with her through all of this like a surrogate son.

She looked up at me, and in a weak voice said, “Pastor Krin, will you lie down next to me?”

Frankly, I didn’t care what the hospital staff felt. There was enough space next to her frail body, so I stretched out alongside her. She turned, laid her head against my shoulder, and softly fell asleep.

As I looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room, listening to her shallow breathing and the echo of voices in the hallway, something transcendent happened. The distortions of the bell jar completely cleared. There was only the present, the connection of two lives, and the omnipresent love that embraces all of us if we let it.

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